In Order
by PerfectMisfit
Summary: Sometimes it took a child's words to put everything back in order for you. //Written for Maria Mississippi's mother's day fic. challenge.


**I don't own Harry Potter ):. This is AU. You have been warned.  
**

_I never felt this empty before..._

She stared at the raindrops that lashed against the windowsill and let out a soft sigh. She carefully lowered herself onto her rickety rocking chair and as she rocked back and forth on it, she began to let her mind wander. It had been a year since his death--he hadn't died like most aurors assumed they would. Not in the line of his duty. He died because of an illness. He was young...so young; just thirty four and dead.

She would think of him on days when the sun shone brightly and the birds chirped merrily--those days described Arthur Weasley perfectly--warm, kind, generous and full of life. Actually, her thoughts always remained centered around him. It was just on those sunny days that all she ever thought about was him or what he would do if he were with her.

He'd come downstairs wearing a goofy grin and he'd make himself a mug of coffee--with magic of course, doing things the muggle way reminded him too much of work. He would kiss her lightly on the cheek and then say goodbye to everyone. He'd play a little with Ginny, who was just two and check Errol's talons to see if Bill had sent any letters from Hogwarts--usually to ask for more money to spend on Bertie Botts Every Flavoured Beans. Bill's addiction to them was surprising and in Molly's opinion, unhealthy--he was the only one in their family who could withstand even the vomit-flavoured ones.

And then, after a long day's work, he'd return, tired and sleepy as usual. He'd eat dinner and then read bedtime stories to Ginny and Ron and occasionally, Fred and George. Charlie was in a phase where all he thought about was Quidditch. Percy claimed he was much too old to be told bedtime stories or sung lullabies too, although he was eight. Molly would ruffle his hair with a smile, glad to see her son was so mature for his age, although a tiny part of her wished he would cling to her and ask to be tucked into bed.

Finally, after all of the children were asleep, the two of them would retire to bed after whispering soft 'I love you's to each other. They were poor--they lead a troublesome life without any luxuries. Hell, Molly was constantly worrying about the state of her tattered sofa or the leaking roof or the worn out drapes. But in the end, their poverty never mattered. They had each other. They had seven adorable children. They had everything a couple could want.

That is, until Arthur passed away. They were no longer a couple then.

Molly let her mind wander back to their wedding night. They were still dressed in their wedding attire. Arthur had carried them up to their bedroom, one arm curled around her shoulders and the other one tucked beneath her knees. He'd laid her on the bed with the utmost care and passionately captured her lips with his. She gazed at the crumpled photo in her hands and let memories flood her mind. The black-and-white photo in her hands was crumpled and fading with time, but the joy on both Arthur's face and hers was visible--there was no way that could ever fade.

And then, for the first time in the twelve years she had been married to Arthur Weasley, Molly Prewett-Weasley let her break down; she cried for the husband she had lost, the man she had loved and married. She cried at the thought of being a widow and living life alone because there was no other man she could fall in love with. She cried at the thought of raising seven children who would never know the man their father was.

And she cried because there was no one who would wipe her tears away now.

Tiny hands tugged at the hem of her dress and two sets of cerulean orbs stared up at her. The twins crawled onto her lap and settle themselves their, their heads leaning against her body.

"Why're you crying Mummy?" Fred asked, clumsily brushing away his mother's tears.

"Hey, is that Dad and you?" George pulled the photograph from his mother's hands and surveyed it. "Dad looks weird."

"When did you take this!" The twins chorused in unison. Molly smiled a small smile at their eagerness.

"In high school. I never liked your Dad then..." Molly started. "He...he was a little...well, the sort of man nobody wanted to be friends with..."

"But you love Dad, right?"

"Yes. I do." Molly chuckled lightly through her tears. More tears fell down her cheeks as she thought him, as she thought of they happy life they could have lead.

"So when's Dad coming back?" George demanded.

Molly felt her heart break; she had to lie to her children and tell them that their father had gone away on a vacation. She couldn't tell them that he was dead and that they would never see him again. She couldn't bear the thought of telling them the man they loved and looked up to was gone. Sooner or later, she knew she would have to and Molly dreaded the day she would have to tell her children their father was deceased.

"You shouldn't cry Mummy. Dad wouldn't have wanted you to be so upset. He's coming back isn't he?" George made a weak attempt as consoling his mother. Fred nodded in agreement. Letting out a long sigh, Molly shook her head and ruffled both boys' hair. A loud wail from upstairs disrupted their tiny mother-sons moment.

"You put slugs in Ron's pants again, didn't you?" Molly admonished the two red-heads.

"He drooled on our Chudley Canons poster again!" Fred defended himself and his brother.

"Go and apologise to Ron. And then get to bed, both of you. And no dinner for you two," Molly scolded them gently.

"Aw, come on. It was his fault."

"He's three! You can't put slugs in his pants!" Molly ticked Fred off. "Now go,"

As the two of them ran off—most likely to their room, and not to apologise to Ron—Molly sunk back against the backing of the rocking chair. George was right—Arthur wouldn't have wanted her to be upset. Arthur would have wanted her to go on with life normally, to raise his children properly and to make sure they knew and respected their father. Not cry over his death (though he would have been offended if Molly wasn't upset over his death).

The soothing ticking of the clock in the hall, the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against the glass, the drafty winds that blew inside the house and the soft creaking of the chair against the wooden-boarded floor, surrounded Molly. Sleepy waves crashed over the middle-aged woman and slowly, she let herself drift off, a smile resting on her lips.

Sometimes, it took a child's words to put things back in order for you.

**Well, what do you think? I wanted to use a nice Japanese title--"Kimi Omou Yoru"--meaning "The nights I think of you", but the English translated version was too long =(. Reviews are welcomed. I'm sorry about the OOC, given the circumstances, I kept them in character...but...ah, well...  
**


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